Of course it did not take the police detective long to find out that the murderer is either: (a) a creature named Isabel, or (b) a creature named Pooch, both recently released from the pound. One of them said to be degenerating rapidly and the other said to possess a youthful shyness, but who knows what violence may lurk beneath a maidenly reticence. The detective will not allow himself to be misled by surfaces.
* * * *
And now Pooch, out into the sunny spring morning, running as fast as she can, and does not stop until completely out of breath, then, panting, slows to a dog-trot. The almost superhuman strength that she has felt ever since the need arose to rescue the baby seems now to be waning. She finally slows to a walk. Then stops. Then hides next to the stairway of a brownstone and tries to make herself and the baby a bit more presentable. She is shaking all over and there are tears in her eyes. She wipes off ... or rather, rubs off the dried stains as best she can and hides them a bit by wearing her smock wrong side out. (Odd, they do not smell like blood.) She removes and throws away the baby's torn vest. Thank God it's warm enough. Only now, in this breathing space, does she realize how cut and bruised her feet are, for they had not been allowed shoes. Probably to make it harder to run away.
As she is busy cleaning herself as best she can, she suddenly realizes that she has, all this time, been hearing a strange clop-clopping sound like hundreds ... thousands of high-heeled shoes, and grunts, and a kind of lowing. It seems to be coming from the end of the block. Something is happening, something big. It raises the hair on the back of her neck, though she doesn't know why. She steps out into the street to try to see down the block. There are brownish creatures heading north, trotting down the middle of the far avenue. Pooch is thinking, what a wonderful place to hide! To go with them, in the center, hidden by their bodies! She hurries to the corner and finds them even more impressive than she had first thought, a huge herd, thousands of them, all up and down Third Avenue as far as one can see (for Pooch has already run all the way from the Upper West Side to the Lower East). Many have colorful backpacks or rolled-up yellow or red raincoats slung over their shoulders. Some have wide-brimmed hats. All have large paper or plastic bags that obviously contain their meals for several days, and all are trotting by at a fairly fast clip, clopping in their clogs or teetering in their high-heeled pumps, some still upright, others on all fours. Cars are honking at them from the side streets, mounted police are trying to disrupt them or change their course, but to no avail. As soon as the police manage to cut off a small group, they break free again and rejoin the herd.
Pooch wonders for a moment about the policemen's horses, seeming to see on the face of one of them (mild brown eyes and long platinum mane) the look of a woman, but then she notices, shyly taking modest glances, that they all seem to be males. (Of course they are geldings, but Pooch knows nothing of such things.) She has heard about horses pulling carts or being ridden, but has not seen any before. She finds them so sensitive looking and aristocratic that she wonders how they can allow themselves to be demeaned in this manner. She supposes they have, in spite of their noble looks and large size, low opinions of their own worth just as the psychologist said she had. Perhaps later on, when and if the world ever really does get straightened out and there is a complete redistribution of power and, especially, profits, they can afford to get the psychological help they need and learn to be more assertive.
She turns again to the migrating herd. If only they would take her along, hide her in their midst, she and the baby might yet be saved! For it is clear that they are going on a very long journey, and nothing could be better right now for Pooch and baby. She hurries up to them, silently mouthing the words help and please. (In all this clatter they'd not have heard her even if she could speak out.) But they pay her no attention, seem to have eyes and grunts only for each other. One of them steps with a sharp spiked heel on Pooch's bare toe when Pooch gets too close. She lets out a yelp, then limps on. Mustn't stop now when safety for her and the baby may be so near. Of course there's no way she can tell one of them her troubles. She can only whimper and bark and groan and in all this clopping and lowing and grunting they can't (or won't) hear her. The one or two who do notice her say, though they are not particularly bovine in appearance, “Moooooove, moooooove,” and in no uncertain terms. One says, “Gooooooww,” and that is clear, too, but Pooch thinks, are they not sisters? Are we not in this together? It seems not. Pooch holds the baby up to them as beseechingly as she can, letting tears come to her eyes, tears that were close anyway, but to no avail. If only she could really speak to them. Surely they are not as hard-hearted as they seem. But now one of them has deliberately knocked her down. Pooch manages to fall so that she scrapes her elbows rather than letting any harm come to the baby, who, thank goodness, laughs at the misadventure and says another “Ouch."
Then Pooch's tears really come. For a moment it all seems so unfair, even that she should be burdened with this baby that laughs when Pooch hurts herself. But then the little creature turns to her with a dazzling smile and says softly, “No, no, no.” Pooch kisses its warm cheeks and her courage returns. She will watch the herd for breaks and she will try to cross the street. It may be safer on the other side. As she watches, she realizes that it would probably have been quite dangerous to the baby and to herself, the blind way these creatures are running, to try to run in their midst. Probably utterly ruin her feet. Perhaps the one who pushed her deliberately was really doing her a favor. She notices that some of them are quite out of breath, but it's clear that they do not dare to drop out. Others bump into them from behind, that's what all the grunting is about. They shove each other along; it's quite brutal. No, better that she should cross the street when she can and head away from them. This she manages to do after waiting several minutes and seeing the herd thin out a bit.
She limps south. She feels a bit safer on this side of the herd, but of course one can't be sure. She tries to keep away from the mounted police, though they pay not the slightest attention to her in spite of her skimpy smock and bare bruised feet. But then, they are probably used to any sort of dress or undress these days. It would take a lot to surprise them.
Suddenly Pooch hears the sound of music coming from quite nearby. Opera! How could she not have noticed it before, in spite of the racket in the street, for here is a wonderful baritone voice and the familiar words coming from a small building, the stage door open. “Le cirque est plein de sang! On se sauve, on franchit les grilles! C'est ton tour maintenant! Allons! ... ” Allons indeed! She cannot resist it. But such a small theater! Pooch creeps in, finds herself backstage in the wings, and hides behind a packing box. Yes, yes, it's he, tall, broad-shouldered, black hair and black mustache, and dressed all in silver and black! Surely, she thinks, this is what love is all about, true, true love, the drums beating. Will she dare to make a gesture in his direction? Will she dare to look him in the eye? She cannot speak, but perhaps a little moan of appreciation would not be inappropriate. Of course it's to be expected that one so bold and so darkly handsome will have many lovers. She must accept that. She will. She will forgive him anything.
Pooch settles back to watch and listen. The trembling and twitching that have been with her since her first visit to the laboratory finally stop and she forgets her troubles, fascinated by the dark man who is in such control of himself and others and listening to the music that she has always loved the best of all.
It's a dress rehearsal. Arias are stopped in the middle sometimes and some of the movement on stage is changed. It is all fascinating to Pooch, though she does wish she could hear the arias through to the end, especially her favorites. All the females have voices of somewhat unusual timbre. Clearly a high c means very little to some of them. They could go on up another octave and perhaps on up into the range that only such as Pooch can hear.
After she has watched and rested for an hour she notices near her a cardboard box full of costumes. In fact it looks rather like old, discarded bits of cos
tumes. If it didn't look as though it were about to be thrown out, Pooch could not have brought herself to touch it, even though she knows that she really must find other clothes. Rummaging through it, she is delighted to find the makings of a wonderful kind of gypsy outfit, quite the fashion, too: long skirt, scarves, beads, all needing some repair. The beads are half unstrung, but Pooch fixes several strands of them that are still hanging together fairly well. Then she dresses herself and the baby to match. She's sure she looks quite a different person, bandana round her head, gold-fringed scarf and fringed skirt, dangly earrings for her silky ears. And she has found sandals to protect her poor bruised feet. Never in her life has she had such finery as this. She feels, for the first time, that she might be, perhaps, a little bit attractive. Perhaps she will dare to smile at the dark and handsome baritone. Yes, she will. She promises herself that she will make some gesture toward him that is even more than just a smile.
All this has taken quite a long time, and now the rehearsal is over. The singers have gone to change out of their costumes and there are too many people roaming about backstage for Pooch to feel safe there, even behind the large packing box, so she hurries outside, but waits by the stage door. She feels quite happy and excited and so well dressed. If only her voice would return to her, just for two or three well-chosen words, she could not ask for more. What with the loss of Basenji and the danger to the baby, as well as to all the others, she has not really thought that much about the loss of her voice. It seems such an insignificant thing when lives are lost or in danger, but hearing the singing has brought pangs of regret so strong that Pooch feels she could hardly breathe, and now ... now especially she does so need to speak.
The herd has all gone by, though now and then Pooch sees a straggler, on the sidewalk this time, clop-clopping north, high heels, backpack, bundles, and a worried expression on her face. Pooch is thinking that, if a conspiracy exists, as the doctor seemed to think, then maybe these are the conspirators, though they certainly are not secretive, and they seem to be lured on by something more primitive than an idea. Some deep inner urge. It's in their faces. And yet, Pooch wonders, does not some atavistic need exist in all of us to save the world, exactly to the degree that we would save ourselves, for aren't we “the world” as much as any other piece in it? Perhaps the more animal we are ... that is, Pooch thinks, that I should keep my basic nature even while becoming (or, rather, hoping to become) an intellectual ... if I could retain strong links to my animal past. Never forget what I am and where I come from....
Meanwhile, people have been coming out the stage door and Pooch, in spite of her musings, has scrutinized each one carefully. But no dark, broad-shouldered man with mustache has appeared. It begins to grow dark. Finally it is clear that everyone has gone. It is then that Pooch has a sudden insight. What about that thin, blond, pale young man who smiled at her shyly? No mustache, no broad shoulders—but he's the only one it could have been! She remembers him clearly. She thought at the time he seemed quite sweet and she had even thought that he might help her, smiling at her as he did, but she was waiting for the glamorous ... for the glittering ... for Escamillo himself to walk out, no doubt to the sound of trumpets. So here she is, not having made a single gesture toward anyone though she had promised herself firmly that she would. And she had not even smiled back at that young man, looking, as she was, so intently for someone else ... for the imaginary man, larger than life.
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Chapter 9: Shocking Passions
Thus far his errors had been abnormal, inhumanly perverted dallyings with the unspeakable.
—John Taine
Now come out the creatures that can see in the dark. Odd hunched-over beings, some of them with long heads and shining eyes. Half this, half that—it's hard to tell exactly what. Is it possible, Pooch wonders, seeing them, that we are as dangerous to each other as we seem to be to the more dominant sex? Are there such as Phillip, for example, but poisonous, now roaming these very streets? Why not? Pooch decides to keep an ear out for any ominous rattling sounds, and having thoughts about rattling brings her to rats. What about them? And what about those who are becoming rats? Perhaps that's who these gray figures are. There seems to be a devilish intelligence in their eyes. How to avoid them?
"Bop, bop?” the baby questions. Suddenly it's wide awake. “Bop, bop, bop? Littlely dittlely, littlely dittlely.” Pooch tries to shush it. She certainly doesn't want to attract attention in this part of town and at this time of night.
Except for that evening at Lincoln Center, Pooch has never been on the streets of the city at such a late hour and certainly never in such a dingy area, full of indigent men who, in this weather, sleep in doorways, their empty beer cans beside them. The bag ladies, it seems, have all disappeared, gone on to worse or better things, slithering into the sewers or ... well, perhaps these gray things are the bag ladies. Pooch wishes them every happiness possible in their new forms, but thinks that to sleep on the streets with these bright-eyed creatures roaming about seems quite dangerous. But what else is there to do? She turns down a side street to see if she can find some hidden basement doorway that is not already occupied. She passes several long-legged things with boas who are standing under a streetlight at the next corner. They have blue or green short-cropped—Pooch isn't sure whether hair, hats, or feathers—and large black areas around their eyes. It might be makeup, but it might be the way their eyes really are. They seem angry with her for coming near them and whistle their warnings. The baby, delighted with the colorful creatures, reaches toward one of them and calls out, “Littlely dittlely,” but the creature turns as if to peck it. Pooch is horrified to find herself giving a warning bark. It works, though. They hurry back into the shadows. Pooch trots away and a few minutes later she does find a secluded basement doorway. There she settles down to watch until morning, hoping that she can stay awake to guard the baby.
If only there really was a conspiracy, she thinks, but as far as she can tell there isn't. But if no one is in charge of all this, then perhaps someone should be. Perhaps she herself, inexperienced as she is.... A vast network could be formed, she is not sure for what purpose. Perhaps self-protection, or to help things along, though of course Mother Nature has always done fairly well on her own with only a modicum of help from human beings (or perhaps one should call it hindrance). In almost all cases Nature seems to know what she is doing, except, of course, where tail feathers are too long for decent flight or, as in the sex life of the snail, with its sex organs on its head and, one might say, a bit excessive in its passions, though Pooch, never having experienced such things as yet, realizes that she should not be judgmental of other creatures when she knows so little about it. Yes, perhaps they could all help Nature along a bit, or at least help to find some order in this chaos.
But perhaps it isn't chaos at all. Just seems so. If only she hadn't lost her voice! And now again, the enormity of her loss hits her. Not to sing! Perhaps never to sing again, let alone speak! Perhaps only to croak like a frog. No, no, she must admit it's barking. How could she have let herself regress so after all her hard work to be both human and humane? So the worst has already happened. This is certainly, if not the, then one of the fates-worse-than-death that she has heard about. Well, nothing for it but to go on. The baby needs her. Her friends back at the doctor's need her, for she is the only one on the outside who can help them. Does the world need her? Only if she makes that true by doing the best she can for it. And what about that slim tan-eyed young man? Good she did not try to relate to him. He would have been shocked at the sounds she might have made. She must be careful to keep her mouth shut from now on. That last bark was quite inadvertent. What a silly fool she was not to know better than to fall in love with an image. Hasn't she read that all romantic love is like that? A sort of mistake? Nice smile, though, there by the door. Very nice smile. And with that thought she dozes off in spite of herself.
* * * *
"Nice ass."
"Want to sleep with me, sweetie?"
"Sure she do. Man, you got the biggest."
"Yeah. Show her."
"Let her alone. She don't fuck around."
"All the better. I like the fucking ones that don't fuck around."
"Why don't she say nothin'?"
"If it ain't no, it's gotta be yes."
"She no cherry. She got a baby"
"Hey, gimme that fucking baby."
"Bop, bop?” it says, and then what sounds like, “Later, later."
"Lady, let me see them tits.” He pulls at her blouse, popping off the top buttons.
"She no lady."
"If that baby's a girl we could help it along some."
Pooch, who has been backed into a corner by the basement door, suddenly lunges forward, pulling her lips back from teeth and letting out a series of fierce growls, roars, and barks, all combined one with the other. The three boys turn and try to scramble up the stairs at the same time. Pooch rips the pants of one of them and pulls the shoe off another, drawing blood in the process, though not much. She is, even right in the middle of it all, horrified with herself. Twice now she has behaved like a dangerous animal. There must be much of the she-wolf in her. More than she ever suspected. Certainly she deserves to have Isabel's reputation, more's the pity.
If only she were religious, she might pray for guidance and have someone to ask forgiveness from besides her master and the psychologist. Or if only they were here. And how sad to be so far from home. But she must not forget the operas, the wonderful operas, the big one that first night and the little one today ... yesterday, that is. Those memories will remain forever a comfort to her. Had she not suffered the trials of these last weeks, she certainly would not have had those joys, nor the joy of meeting so many new friends, nor would she have had the opportunity of easing poor Basenji's pain in whatever way she could. And the baby! Perhaps it is alive today because of her, for the mistress might have done much more harm to it later on and Pooch might not have been able to defend it. But then again, she herself is fiercer than she ever thought she was. Perhaps that's just as well. She turns and covers the baby's face with kisses as though to prove that she indeed still has a soft heart.
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